The Choices of Elros
by Nawyn
Summary: Elrond can forgive and go on. For Elros, it's not so easy. Companion piece to "The Greatest Price."


**The Choices of Elros**

I will grant that there is some truth to Elrond's words. Ever he has insisted that Maedhros and Maglor took only bitterness from the last of the kinslayings, and in this I believe he speaks rightly. Indeed there is little in which I may gainsay him, for his wisdom is far greater than his years. Our mother used to tell us tales of our ancestress, Melian the Maia, whose wise counsel guided for a time our forefather Thingol. The energy of Men has since tempered the blood of our line, but in Elrond I see most clearly the legacy of Melian. There is little in which he chooses wrongly, and yet always he seeks to know more. Through knowledge he seeks to find truth. He tells me with a smile that Maglor seeks the exact reverse in the making of his lament for the Noldor. "Once the truth is clear, he hopes to understand it," he says, the echo of a laugh in his voice.

"There seems little difficulty in understanding it," I reply. "I am young yet, but I can see plainly enough."

Elrond's smile slips from his face. "Will you not even try, Elros? Has all that I have said meant nothing to you?"

There is a sword beside me, a gift of sorts from Maedhros. It needs sharpening. I pull it into my lap and strip off the sheath. It is easier to test the edge of the blade than to meet Elrond's disappointed eyes. "No," I say at last. "I listen to everything you say. But then I must listen to what they say, and what I say, and in the end my choice must be mine to make."

"I do not wish to lead you astray," Elrond says quietly. His voice flutters like the wings of a weary bird, erratic and failing. He can never control it. He does not know how much I hate that unsteady tone, because I have never told him. He does not assume it on purpose – it never seemed fair to upbraid him for a thing he cannot help. I clench my teeth and pull the sharpening stone along the length of my blade in harsh strokes. I think, in a traitorous portion of my mind that I have no wish to examine, that perhaps I hate that tone because it reminds me that once again he is right.

I say nothing. I keep my lips pressed together on the words I should not speak, and finally Elrond stands. "Make your choice, then, brother. I wish only to help, not to compel."

"I know," I whisper, so faint that he would not have heard it if he were not of the Eldar. He smiles a little and sets a hand on my shoulder for a moment before he steps away and leaves me to the sharpening of my blade.

Even that gives me no rest from my thoughts, for I have the sword from Maedhros, under circumstances I would rather forget. I had itched for a weapon long before the day came when Maedhros called me to his side. "Your brother," he said, "wishes to learn rather than to fight. You, I think, are made otherwise. There is something within that drives you onward. I think it will never let you rest, and unless you may defend yourself it could lead to your death." He held out the sword then, unsheathed, with the sunlight glinting on the naked blade. "It is yours, regardless," he said. "But if you wish, I will teach you the use of it."

I had stared from the beautiful sword to his stern face, wondering if one truly came without the other. For I could not but think that he would indeed be a fine teacher, knowing as well as he did how to kill. I had seen his prowess on show in Sirion, and the thought of learning the sword from he who would have killed me choked my words for a long time. When at last I felt capable of speech, I said, "Do you not fear that if you teach this to me, I may use it against you?"

Maedhros laughed then, utterly without mirth. "No," he said. "You forget that I have made my way in Arda by the use of a sword, and for far longer than you can imagine. If you tried to cut me down unawares, Elros, I believe I would know it. You may well prove skilled with a blade, but the art of disguise is quite foreign to you." I flushed in shame, proving his point for him.

He took my hand and set the hilt into it. "Make of it what you will. If you wish to have instruction, you need only ask."

As he turned to leave, words sprang from my lips without my knowledge, or indeed my leave. "How do you know how I am made?" I cried after him. "How can you know what drives me?"

Maedhros turned back around, and there was something like pity in his gaze. "Because," he said, "I fear we are made somewhat alike."

I would not believe it then, but I have thought on it for some time now. And although I cannot imagine myself as grim as Maedhros, I wonder if indeed he does know something of my need to strike, to mete out my own justice. And I cannot doubt that he knows the uncertainty that makes me hesitate, wondering whether I have truly judged aright.

It is that thought that stays my hand when I remember the streets of Sirion running red and think of putting his skills to the test.

All that is left to me, I have from Maedhros and Maglor. It galls me to take the scraps they deem fit to throw Elrond and me, as though we are not also princes of the Eldar, and have been twice robbed of our birthrights by their deeds. We are the Dispossessed as much as they, but we did not choose our doom. They forced it upon us, they flung us headlong into it, and yet they expect that we will be grateful for the mockery of life that is left to us. Elrond would say that I judge too harshly, but I cannot judge other than I see.

What galls me more is that he has forgiven them. My brother, my last remaining kin in Arda, can put the memories from his mind and offer them friendship. He talks with Maglor for hours on end – I have heard them laughing together. It took him years, but he can look at Maedhros now without shuddering, and even offer him comfort through nothing more than his presence. He can listen with tears streaming down his face to Maglor's great song, and even with the full knowledge of their deeds ringing in his ears he can pardon them.

It frightens me, such forgetfulness. It seems to me a betrayal. I think the Edain have the right of it – their lives are so short that they have no time to spare in forgetting, or in changing their memories to make them easier to bear. They must simply take them and move onward, forging what legacy they can from their talent and the strength of their own will. I think I could do likewise, as long as I could do it alone. In the company of those I cannot pardon, with Elrond's example showing me always what I hate and yet feel myself inferior to, unable to forget or forgive, I know not what I will become.


End file.
